The buildings passed in a blur. Driving one block, turning and heading north, heading away, getting out of there. The BMW racing and forgetting about street signs and stoplights. Pretty Boy just made sure the speedometer kept going up.
The two cop cars just came out of nowhere. Nowhere. Like they knew somehow.
The chopper.
It had to be. Pretty Boy couldn’t figure out how else. He jerked on the brakes and heard the tires howling on the pavement. Kriminal cursed next to him as Pretty Boy looked in the mirror and saw more rollers ripping down the road toward them. At the last intersection they passed, another set of cops were coming in from both sides.
There was absolutely nowhere to go.
No jail, I’m not heading to jail no way.
Kriminal was next to him, taking a pair of Glocks out from the bag and getting ready for war. Pretty Boy had seen enough. He’d done enough.
Enough.
He almost broke the handle ripping open the door.
“P.B., the money! Don’t forget the money!”
Kriminal didn’t just scream. He practically roared. He stared at the bag between them and thought against it, knowing it wasn’t a good thing and knowing that—
Pretty Boy took it.
His hand felt warm touching the bag but it didn’t matter. He took it and took off running.
There was one thing he was good at besides rapping and it was running. He’d done a little sports when there was still a little room for that life and he could always outrun the other kids. Track and basketball and football. He could run, brother, and that was what he was doing now.
Every second he expected to hear the pops of Kriminal’s handguns behind him. But none came. Maybe Kriminal decided there were too many. Maybe he was running, just like Pretty Boy.
The athletic bag was heavy but it didn’t matter. The terror raced through every place his blood pumped. Pretty Boy was tearing down the street. He found an alley and darted down, then reached a fence, threw the bag over it, and climbed it in no time.
He ran.
Over a street and into a deserted junkyard. Away from the lights and the noise. Away from them.
Not turning behind and not stopping.
No jail no time no blood no crime.
He reached another set of houses. Pretty Boy had an idea of where he was at, but he didn’t know exactly the neighborhood. Dark, mostly deserted, small houses, former homes, forgotten after the big housing bubble burst.
He reached an old body shop he somewhat recognized, then crossed the street, slowing just a bit, breathing in and trying to figure out where to head.
A cop car was across the street, the officer snoozing, but he was suddenly awakened by his steps.
He cursed again.
Just his luck.
God’s judgin’ me and he’s sendin’ them after me, right, G-Ma?
A hundred steps led him to another dark alley and he didn’t hesitate to go down it. The roller’s lights were after him now. Then he heard a door open and footsteps and a flashlight trying to keep up with him.
The dead end was fifty yards ahead of him.
He didn’t stop.
There was no stopping now.
His eyes scanned the back of the alley, barely lit by the lights from the apartment buildings on either side.
There.
On one side he could see the fire escape that led to the second story.
Just try nothin’ to lose go.
Light bounced up and down as the steps behind him continued and the voice kept ordering him to stop.
A building and a wall and no escape. That’s where this alley went.
Your pathetic life in a nutshell, P.B.
While still running, Pretty Boy heaved the bag of money up on the fire escape, then hurdled onto a garbage can and bounced up onto a dumpster. Thank God it was a rollaway with a top.
Still moving in a way that would make LeBron James proud, he launched himself toward the metal stairs above him.
His hands found the rusted-out railing and they clung and didn’t let go. It took him a second to pull himself up.
The cop kept coming. That light still moving around. He scanned the stairs and already started to run up them, shifting the bag in his hand and heading up.
But he was like a wide receiver thinking downfield before catching the ball.
The duffel bag slipped out of his hand, falling down to the alley, landing with a thud behind the dumpster.
He cursed and stared at it in disbelief.
Go go go go go.
Sucking in breaths now, he thought about it, but he knew. There was no way. The cop coming . . .
He raced up the metal steps toward the rooftop. Then he tore across a flat space until he reached the other side of the building. Another fire escape waited for him.
Escaping the fire’s right.
Now on the other side of the building and on another street he could hear the sound of the helicopter looking for him. Maybe looking for Kriminal. Maybe looking over Kriminal’s body after a cop filled him with a six-pack of slugs.
Pretty Boy didn’t even notice the sign he passed while he rushed into the parking lot until he reached the front doors and looked back.
First he could see a cop car passing the lot.
Then he saw the sign in bright and bold colors.
Good enough for me.
He opened the door and slipped inside the building.